He died once. Maybe in a different life. Maybe in a different body. But he died. It’s why his mind is broken, and it’s why he’s prone to mood swings – though the woman that sits across from him doesn’t know these things, and nor will she ever. She rarely smiles when the timing calls for it, but she does nod her head in silence and she does jot things down in her small notebook, and Jamison imagines a long, long list that goes on for pages highlighting his negative behavior and his disorders and things that are overall wrong with him that he can probably improve without needing to talk to her really. And while he’s sure there are some solutions that are there to help fix him, he doubts any of them will work. He can’t trust some stranger to possibly cure him. These days, he can’t trust anyone at all. But Jamison knows how crazy it would sound telling her about himself — his real self, at least, and quite frankly, he’s in no condition to take any more medication that he’s already been prescribed. Not like he does all that great of a job with taking them in the first place. But even so, as he sits with his legs crossed and his elbows propped up on the arms of the big, oversized chair, he knows he can’t tell her a damn thing about the other personality that exists from within. It wouldn’t take much for her to just label him as a schizophrenic. Hell, he’s often debated between caving in just to see the kind of reaction she’d give him. He’d do it just for the shits and giggles alone, but maybe pills for this kind of thing wouldn’t be so bad after all. For one reason or another, though, he’s promised Jason that he won’t say a thing. They’ve compromised multiple times, and despite there almost always being an incident where one of them seems to break their end of the deal, Jamison has yet to confess to his psychiatrist about the dead, murderous man that is hidden beneath the core. His loyalty to Jason exists to some extent. All of it seems too crazy to be true. He’d rather suffer alone (but he isn’t, not really) than be hospitalized though.

The woman looks up, as if she’s caught on to him doing something behind her back, and Jamison shoots her an all-knowing grin like she’s close to solving the puzzle, but she isn’t all quite there yet. He likes to think he hears her groan, though he knows he can’t call her out on it. She’s got to act like a professional, and though her eyes narrow to slits as she watches his movements like a hawk, he holds his smug expression and leans back in his chair so that she may continue going down the list of questions he’s heard so many times before. He shifts in his chair once, lifting his leg off the other so that he can plant them both on the floor. “Listen, Dr. Q—,” he finally mutters, breaking his glare from the top of her head as she finally looks up from the notepad and cants her head to the side, interrupting without a moment to spare. “This won’t be much longer, I promise,” she tries to assure him, and just when he thinks she’ll smile, she slaps her notebook shut and sits upright. Straightening the wrinkles of her skirt, he can’t help but stare at her with disdain. “But before we can end our session today, I’d like for you to tell me more about ... Jason.”